


Discipline Me (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Mage Series [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Murder, Pre-John Watson, Scary Children, Slavery, Sociopathic Sherlock, Teen Mycroft, Teen Sex, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Siger has two unruly princes and a third on the way, but no time to discipline him while ruling a kingdom. Instead, he passes the care of his concubine's child off on a knight-in-training who isn't afraid to use a firm hand on the angry prince while he takes his heir under his wing. However, with all that attention on his eldest two sons, his third child is left to run wild- even after showing magical abilities that could cripple the country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prequel to "The Mage's Slave"  


It had been bearable up until now: up until Mummy had stopped moving. He had been bullied by Sherrinford, ignored by Father, feared by the servants for being ‘ginger’ and therefore soulless, but it had all been bearable up until Father had poisoned Mummy. She had known it was coming and had warned him. She had made him promise to be a good boy if she left. It was all Sherrinford’s Mummy’s fault. She hated Mycroft’s Mummy and had tried over and over again for years to have another baby so the concubine wouldn’t be necessary anymore. Now that she had delivered another son Father had made good on his promise to kill Mycroft’s Mummy.

Mummy had eaten her food, not allowing Mycroft to share it with her as she had refused to do ever since Lady Pendragon had become pregnant. Then she had made a horrible choking sound, thrown up, and stopped moving. Mycroft had done everything he could, mainly reaching into her mouth and trying to get the evil food out, but she had died before he could help. He had cried after that, and then he had moved onto acceptance because you didn’t survive in this castle for six years without learning that tears were useless. Instead, Mycroft thought about what he could do next. Mummy was chained in her room. Mycroft was free to roam about and probably would be left alone so long as he didn’t cause trouble. Mycroft wanted to be with Mummy, but the staff had told him he didn’t have a soul because his hair was red so perhaps he wouldn’t get to be with Mummy if he died.

Mycroft decided that there was only one answer. He would punish his father. He would do everything in his power, for the rest of his life, to make his father miserable. Mummy had told him to behave, but she wasn’t here anymore and him behaving hadn’t kept her alive so Mycroft didn’t see the point. Instead he gently closed her eyes, washed his hands, and summoned a servant.

“I want a change of clothes. These are ruined.”

The servant saw his dead mother stretched out on her bed and the sick on Mycroft’s clothes and turned very pale. It took a moment, but then Mycroft realized that the servant thought _he_ had killed his Mummy! All right, he could work with that.

“Mummy made me promise to be good, but I don’t think I’m going to,” Mycroft stated.

The servant nervously lead him back to his chambers, washed him, changed his clothes, and then hurried off to spread rumors. Mycroft made a list of things to do to torture father.

  1.      Hide things.
  2.      Talk back in front of important people.
  3.      Trick Sherrinford into falling down.
  4.      Kill baby Sherlock.
  5.      Avoid Lady Pendragon.



Lady Pendragon hated him and he hated her to the point of wanting to avoid her rather than make her miserable. Besides, he was sure she’d be sad if he just killed Sherlock. That way, he got two birds with one stone.

The next day he started his plot; placing sharp stones on Father’s chair so he yelped when he sat down, accusing him of murdering his mother in front of visiting dignitaries, and putting out his foot out whenever Sherrinford walked by. His father thought some of it funny, but some of it irritating. His brother beat him up. Lady Pendragon never let her new young son out of her sight. She was often heard singing, ‘An hier and a spare!’ to herself.

This went on for several years, with his father becoming more irritable towards him, but not doing much about it other than occasionally ordering a servant to give him a half-hearted flogging. Mycroft had eventually given up his idea of killing Sherlock simply because the boy was amusing to him. Sherlock was only three when Mycroft’s life changed again, and the lad was with him when it happened.

Mycroft had begun irritating the guards and knights, and a new squire had joined the ranks a week ago. At the time Mycroft did not know the brunettes name, but he would discover it once the ‘incident’ was over. The guards and knights could not retaliate against Mycroft themselves, so he actually bothered them in order to get them to bother father. The stupid gits hadn’t figured that out, so they simply kept it up like trained birds spitting out the same few words.

The squire was doing all the grunt work that squires often did. He’d grown up at the palace, so Mycroft was familiar with the sight of him, but had never spoken to him before. He didn’t play like other children, so there was no reason to associate with the palace waifs. Mycroft snuck up on the squire while he was shoveling manure in the stables, but was too late to push him in as he’d already finished. He watched as the lad washed up his arms and face and then walked back into the barn and shut the doors before heading into a stall.

 _What is he doing?_ Mycroft wondered, and peered around the corner. Lestrade was loosening his trousers and reaching inside his pants. _Why would he relieve himself here after just mucking out the stall? He’ll make more mess!_

But the squire didn’t try to wee; he started rubbing his hand over his bits. Mycroft giggled, thinking it an odd thing to do, and turned to motion to Sherlock to come see the silly boy. His sound alerted the squire, however, and he quickly righted his clothes and hurried forward with his face red and angry.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” The squire shouted.

“You can’t talk to me like that, I’m a prince!”

“You’re a silly little boy with no respect for others!”

“You’re an idiot!”

“I’m the idiot? You make everyone miserable all day and night just for your amusement and _I’m the idiot?_ Have you looked in a mirror recently?” The squire shoved Mycroft, who stumbled back and gaped at him.

“You can’t touch me, either!” Mycroft shouted, and shoved back but the squire was completely immovable.

The squire smiled, but it was cold and angry and Mycroft started backing up in fear. The lad grabbed his arm and dragged him into the stall.

XXX

The squire had had enough. The whelp had pushed him into a pile of manure on his first day as squire, kicked him in the bollocks two days ago, and spooked his masters horse (getting him blamed for it) just yesterday. He was done being the butt of the little brat’s jokes. So he tugged him into the stall, sat down on an upturned pail, and started tugging his trousers down. Prince Mycroft, likely knowing not to let strangers pull his trousers off, began screaming and shouting in a fit.

“No one’s going to come for you, you little beast!” The squire shouted over his screams, “You’ve shouted bloody murder too many times only to be completely fine when they found you!”

The squire got his trousers and pants down, ignoring him when he shouted for Prince Sherlock to get help, and tossed the brat over his knees. He glanced up at Prince Sherlock, who was simply standing there laughing a bit, and then brought his hand down sharply on the screaming boy’s bare bottom. Prince Mycroft went from screaming to shocked silence and his punisher heaved a sigh of relief at having _finally_ gotten one over the little monster. He’d only meant to strike him once and then let him up, but it was such a _thrill_ to punish the cretin, and he was already in hot water for hitting him once, that he let another fall. Mycroft didn’t take this one silently, however, and started up a strain of screams, swears, shouts, and threats as the lad wailed on his buttocks and thighs over and again. When the boy had dropped down to sobs and then further down to whimpers and hiccups, the squire stopped paddling him and gently soothed his hand over the bruised orbs.

Mycroft whimpered and sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry!”

The squire gently helped the boy straighten up, once more stroking his bruised bottom and thighs to ease the burn. Then he very gently helped him re-dress until Mycroft stood before him fully righted but still sniffling miserably.

“Now then,” The squire stated gently as he wiped tears from his red cheeks, “You mustn’t go about making people’s lives _miserable._ Do you understand?”

Mycroft nodded and the squire pulled him into a gentle hug, careful of his tender spots. Mycroft stiffened, and then his arms flew around the boy’s neck and he clamoured into his lap, straddling his legs. The squire spread his legs so the boy’s bottom didn’t touch them and he held him tightly around the torso as he sobbed into his collar. The squire rubbed his back and rocked him, whispering soothing nonsense into his wild red locks until the lad fell asleep. A glance over revealed Prince Sherlock had wondered off at some point, probably to play in the hay, so the squire eased the boy up into his arms and carried him in that direction. He laid the princeling on his side in the loose straw and sat down on a straw bale to watch the now softened face as it slept.

_I’ll be whipped for this. I’ll be worse than whipped. I’ll be thrown out._

The squire sighed, his ardour of before long forgotten, and headed up to the lodge where he and the other squires all slept.

 _Twelve years old and my life is over_ , he sighed miserably, _all so I could get revenge on a bratty princeling, and for what? To comfort him after? What was I_ thinking _back there?_

XXX

Mycroft woke up to the feel of something tickling his nose. It turned out to be little Sherlock’s curls. The toddler had snuggled up to him while he had slept… in the hay in a barn? Mycroft stirred and instantly pain coursed through his backside and memories through his mind. That squire had _spanked_ him!

Spanked him and then held and comforted him. It was the first time in three years that anyone had laid a hand on him to do anything besides punish him or yank him about. Father didn’t love him. Sherlock was just a toddler. Sherrinford was a bastard with nothing but swords and shields on the brain. His stepmother had hated him all his life. The servants feared him.

Mycroft slipped away from the sleeping toddler, leaving him to quietly suck his thumb in the barn, and headed out into the chill early spring air. The knights were practicing in the yard again, but Mycroft wouldn’t be allowed further than the last row of seats. Instead he sat down on the seats and watched the men and women slash back and forth with various weapons. He watched the squire who had paddled him run and fetch and take their lip. He watched him become frustrated when he had a decent idea and they shot it down, and then he watched him swallow that frustration down.

“Sir Gawain!” Mycroft shouted to one of the knights who was heading up the path away from the jousting ring.

“Aye, sire?”

“Who’s that new squire?”

The man glanced over his shoulder, “Gregory Lestrade.”


	2. Chapter 2

There will be no underage sex in this story (Under 16 by British Law) but there will be experimentation. 

Mycroft waited until Gregory was in eyesight. He’d been behaving himself for a week now and all he had gotten was bored and lonely. Gregory paid him no mind except to watch him carefully when he was around to avoid being pranked by him. Mycroft was planning on getting the lads attention again so he picked out a victim and a heavy, but not too heavy, rock. Once he saw Gregory walking slowly behind Sir Gawain he jumped out, met Gregory’s eyes, and chucked the rock at Sir Gawain’s head.

Gawain spun around to see what had happened: “Oi! Who threw that rock! You nearly brained me you little…”

Mycroft and Gregory were embroiled in a staring contest. Gregory was glaring at Mycroft disapprovingly and Mycroft was visually daring him to do something about it. Then Gregory sniffed lightly, gave Mycroft a disappointed look, and then turned his head away as if he’d ceased to exist. Mycroft felt his stomach plummet. He followed Gregory with his eyes as the older boy walked past him with his head high and his eyes firmly ahead. As Gregory passed Sir Gawain the knight gave them both a perplexed look.

Mycroft hurried forward, frantic to correct his miscalculation.

“I’m sorry!” Mycroft shouted, recalling that Gregory had begun to hold him when he’d apologized before, “Gregory, I’m sorry!”

Gregory stopped and levelled his eyes on Mycroft, looking down his nose at the young prince, and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not the one who was hurt. You should apologize to Sir Gawain.”

“Lestrade!” Gawain hissed, “That’s prince Mycroft!”

Gregory didn’t budge and he and Mycroft were once more staring each other down as Mycroft sweated and tried to figure out if this was one of those warped tests like the ones his father sometimes dealt out. If he apologized, would he be mocked? Beaten? He wanted Gregory’s attention, but he suddenly found himself _not_ wanting the spanking again! Finally he decided testing the reaction was the only option. He’d already underestimated the squire; he would have to play this his way until he figured out what the rules were.

“I apologize Sir Gawain. I shouldn’t have thrown the rock at you,” Mycroft stated formally.

Sir Gawain looked baffled a moment, then he cracked a grin, “Well, boys will be boys, even royal ones, I suppose. All is forgiven, lad… er… sire.”

Mycroft’s eyes flew to Gregory to find him smiling warmly, his eyes sparking with… _something._ Approval? Was that what it looked like? Gregory liked what he’d done! Mycroft rushed forward and threw his arms around Gregory’s waist despite the fact he was sweaty from practice. The young squire put one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his head, petting him gently, then leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Let’s see if you can be decent _first_ next time, eh?”

Mycroft nodded and stepped back to devour that look on his face again. Then he took off to find something to do that wouldn’t involve getting Gregory angry with him again.

For several weeks Mycroft devoted himself to his studies, making his governess absolutely thrilled and his parents surprised but approving. Suddenly he was getting that ‘approval’ look from many people at once. Word had spread of his apology and that Gregory had somehow sparked it and people were giving him another chance. Mycroft met Gregory every day after practice and before the evening meal, just as the squire was heading up from the ring. He would walk backwards as the young squire headed for his barracks, chattering on about everything he’d learned. Once they got to the lodge Mycroft would stand by the door and Gregory would hug him or perhaps give him a few words of encouragement. Sometimes he asked questions about Mycroft’s studies and it thrilled Mycroft to be so smart for him. The other knights never interfered or interrupted them, though once a knight called out to Gregory to skip a chore he’d been assigned. Mycroft was proud that Gregory talking to him was more important than trimming something-or-other.

XXX

Greg was nervous. The king had been watching them for a few weeks now and he was sure the man was reading into it quite a bit. Yes, Mycroft was following him about, and he had hugged the lad a fair few times, but it wasn’t _that_ sort of thing. Mycroft was only six years old, the lad had no idea what the bits between his legs were for besides writing his name in the dirt with piss, and Greg certainly wasn’t going to be the one to correct him. Hell, he’d only just figured out those parts himself!

It had been one of the older squires who had first told Greg why his trousers were suddenly becoming too tight and his hammock was sticky in the mornings. He’d tried to get Greg to take down his pants and show him, but he’d refused and one of the knights had overheard. He’d sent Greg to the castle physician who had explained ‘the birds and the bees’ to Gregory. The lad had walked away relieved he’d told the other squire off but a good deal more curious than when he’d walked in. What followed next was a round of spying with the older squires – minus the one who had tried to take advantage of Greg as he’d been whipped. The boys had snuck around the castle in the evening and spied in the washing areas and even in some of the ladies chambers. Some of the ladies knew they were watching and let them peak, giggling all the while. Some yelled at them and chased them away. At one point a lady was in her chambers with a man and he was bouncing up on top of her. Gregory’s mouth had gone dry at the sight of the man’s buttocks clenching and unclenching with each thrust. A glance aside showed he wasn’t the only one aroused and he and that squire had shyly smiled at each other.

Later the other squire, Dennis, had offered to touch him if Greg would touch him first. They’d fumbled awkwardly together, but not much had come of it besides a bit of excitement and lots of sloppy kissing. They’d ended up giggling and mock fighting a bit before leaving their hiding spot in the barn and going back to bed. That night Gregory had dreamt of him and woken up sticky again.

Now, however, not a single boy or girl would go near Gregory, and he very much thought it was the little prince’s fault. Everyone had them pegged as a couple! It was ridiculous! Gregory was much too relieved to be free of the troublesome prankster to correct the situation, so he simply kept up his praises and reward hugs. Until the boy asked for a kiss.

“You want a what?”

“A kiss. Here,” he pointed to his cheek.

 _Thank goodness_.

“Have you been good today?”

“I’ve been _excellent_ today.”

 _Where does a six year old learn that word?_ Gregory chuckled and bussed the lad’s cheek.

He found himself standing before the king faster than you could say premarital contract.

“What are your intentions with my son?”

“Which son, sire?” Greg squeaked, and then realized how _awful_ that sounded, “I-I assume you mean prince Mycroft?”

“The same,” King Siger replied, his eyes narrow.

“None sire, that is _honourable_ sire, and by that I mean there’s nothing going on!”

King Siger raised an eyebrow, “You mean to tell me you _aren’t_ the one who tamed my rebellious offspring?”

“I… I…”

“Do you read, squire?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Take a look at this,” King Siger produced a small piece of paper from his pocket and Gregory nervously stepped forward and accepted it, “Can you read it? The writing is atrocious.”

“I think I can… is this last bit ‘kill baby Sherlock’? Sire, who wrote this?!”

“My son, Mycroft. It is old, of course, a good three years old, but we found it about two years ago. He has not been aggressive towards his youngest brother in quite some time, but we still have good reason to worry. Judging by the penmanship, as interpreted by his governess, and based on his behaviour, we believe he wrote it the day his mother was found poisoned. We believe he blames me, the poor dear.”

“That’s awful,” Greg replied, handing the paper back, “No wonder he misbehaves so often.”

“Indeed, and while his behaviour is much improved he still gives me trouble, especially around important visitors. If I can not control one small child, how am I to rule a country, hmm?”

“Very well, sire,” Greg replied automatically.

King Siger threw back his head and laughed out loud: “Very well, sire!”

Beside him the Lady Pendragon raised a delicate hand and twittered a bit. Sherlock was her spitting image, but Mycroft resembled neither of them. Gregory had never seen the king’s concubine, so he had no idea what she looked like, but the pale ginger must be similar to her. Sherrinford was, of course, the double of his father, the king, in all but one feature: he was dumb as mud.

“I don’t care how you did it,” Siger sneered, “I don’t care if you rape him hourly, just so long as he behaves. Fix the rest of his behaviour and you will be well rewarded. Let him slip and you will be punished.”

“S-sire!” Gregory stammered in alarm, a surge of protectiveness for the red-haired princeling welling up inside him.

“Your duties will be reassigned. You are now my middle son’s personal guard. You will have quarters within the palace walls, directly beside his, and make your requests to his governess. She has been instructed to aid you with an _open mind_.”

Greg nodded his head, his heart in his throat, and he was lead to a new set of rooms. He was in the smaller of the two, which were connected by a door that only locked from _his_ side. What if he hadn’t been the one to paddle the insolent boy? What if it had been that other squire, the one who had propositioned Greg? Visions of the tender youth being violated made him feel ill and he hurried put it out of his mind. Instead he opened the doors between their chambers so he would know when the lad arrived. Sure enough, he came bounding in a moment later.

“Our rooms are to be moved! I’m to live with you now! I won’t have to listen to Sherlock cry all night or our governess snore!” Mycroft hopped up on Greg’s bed and bounced a moment and then stared at it in disgust, “What is this, wood covered in blankets?”

Gregory laughed, “We can’t all have goose down mattresses. I’ll get some straw from the barn to make it softer.”

“No you won’t. You’ll have a goose down mattress like mine, or I shan’t sleep here!”

“You have your own bed and…”

The lad was off like a shot, tearing down the halls towards the throne room, and the king’s order felt like a pitchfork prodding his back. He took off after prince Mycroft and was just in time to hear him demanding his guard have a _proper_ mattress. Greg skidded to a halt, gave the king and queen a quick bow, and then grabbed Mycroft by the ear and dragged him screaming from the room. A glance over his shoulder showed his father and stepmother smiling happily at his treatment.

“I was just trying to get you something nice!” Mycroft wailed once they were alone in their rooms again.

“I know that, come here now,” Greg soothed, pulling the lad to a table and chairs and sitting down in a chair. He patted his knee and the lad climbed up to sit in his lap, “I’m sorry I twisted your ear like that, but the king would have punished me horribly for your insolence. You need to behave yourself if you want me happy, understand?”

“N-no. You’re not my guard, you’re my governess?”

“Sort of, I’m to keep you in line. Your father is happy with how you behave around the knights because of me, so now he wants you to behave that way always.”

“I hate my father! I won’t! He doesn’t deserve it!”

“Whether he deserves it or not, you’re going to give it to him,” Greg replied, his voice turning stern, “He’s your father. He brought you into this world, and he can take you back out!”

_Along with me…_

Mycroft hiccupped and stared at Greg for a moment with a blank look on his face that the former squire found most disconcerting.

“Do you think I have no soul?” Mycroft whispered.

“What?” Greg asked, horrified.

“The servants tell me I have no soul. They say they know because my hair is red.”

“That’s a load of bollocks!” Greg snapped, then slapped his hand over his mouth and muttered an apology for cursing, but Mycroft had giggled and smiled cheerily.

“Do you love me, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, his arms wrapping around Greg’s neck and his wet eyes staring at him hopefully, “Say you do! No one has loved me since Father poisoned Mummy.”

Well, there was really only one way to answer that.

“Of course I love you, sire.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ve decided you’re to be my daddy,” Mycroft stated the next morning.

Greg froze, his hand midway to his mouth with the bit of cheese he’d been enjoying for breakfast.

“Sorry?” Greg asked, certain he had heard wrong.

“I’ve decided you’re to be my daddy. I love you more.”

Mycroft continued to eat his breakfast, his movements dainty for so young a lad, and Greg took a moment to struggle with whatever decision he had to make.

“Sire…”

“Mycroft. My daddy should call me Mycroft. Or My. Or dear. Or darling.”

“Mycroft,” Greg decided warily, “Your _real_ daddy might not like that.”

“I’ve thought of that. My father hates the Irish, he thinks they’re savages.”

“They aren’t…”

“But he _thinks_ they are. Gaelic for ‘father’ is ‘athair’.”

“Ah her?” Greg replied, sounding it out phonetically.

“Exactly. I’ll call you athair and he’ll never know the difference. I love you athair.”

“I love you too, s… My.”

Mycroft beamed and tucked back into his breakfast while Gregory tried to tally up the chances he’d survive the upcoming year. They looked fairly slim.

Gregory still had knights training while Mycroft was in school, so he attended it with renewed vigor since his time there was limited. He knew he would need to be especially attentive if he wanted to become a knight some day, despite his ‘promotion’ to guard, which everyone knew was false anyway. Of course, they saw it as him sleeping his way to the top, and no amount of disgust and argument on Gregory’s part would dissuade them. He ended up being the punching bag for the group whenever demonstrations were needed. The knights who believed that he was honest did their best to look out for him, but that only made things worse in the eyes of his fellow trainees.

Still, it made all the difference to go home to the prince, who had thrown himself whole-heartedly into the pretence that they were father and son. Greg sat on his bed beside him and read him a story, which of course led to Mycroft correcting his pronunciation and helping him with the larger words. Once the story was over, Gregory would tuck him in, buss his forehead, and head to bed himself. The small boys undying love was a balm to him when he faced the bitterness of each day.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Years passed in this way, with Gregory getting the better part of a free education from his young charge and when he reached his majority at sixteen he was granted his knighthood. The castle threw a feast in honour of all the new knights, and Mycroft politely requested to sit by Gregory’s side. A fluid person sat to his left and they made small talk for a bit. Greg had been interested in hir, but ze was involved with someone named Anderson from a year below them and no one ever expressed interest in Gregory.

“So what now? Will you still be the young lord’s personal bodyguard?” Donovan asked.

“I suspect so,” Gregory replied.

“Athair isn’t leaving my side. Ever,” Mycroft stated firmly.

“Yes, sire,” Donovan replied with a polite smile and a nod. Everyone was used to Mycroft’s nickname for Gregory and the few who knew what it meant seemed content to pretend they didn’t know a language the king scorned.

The king stood and made a speech on loyalty and the value of knights in the kingdom and then all but ordered everyone to enjoy their meal. Gregory tucked in eagerly and watched Mycroft eat daintily at his side. The boy was getting pudgy, for all he ate so delicately. Gregory was debating on whether or not he should limit the lad’s sweets. When Mycroft reached for a second desert, Gregory made up his mind. He caught the young man’s wrist and leaned over to whisper into his ear.

“No more deserts, you can only have one per meal from now on.”

“WHAT?!” Mycroft shrieked, his still-soprano voice carrying over the entire assemblage.

Greg winced and hissed at him to apologize.

“I want another desert!” Mycroft shouted instead.

“No,” Gregory replied calmly.

“Sir Lestrade, perhaps you would be so kind as to take this outside the hall,” The Queen requested.

Gregory flushed and nodded, rising to bow to them each while keeping a firm grasp on Mycroft’s wrist. He refused to budge. He gripped his seat with one hand and wrapped his ankles around the legs of the chair.

“I want another desert! It’s a party! I can have two!”

Gregory didn’t argue. There was no point. When the prince had a temper tantrum physical punishment was all he understood. Even pointing out that it could get Gregory beheaded did no good as he’d long ago dismissed that ‘threat’ as false; he was certain Gregory was too valuable to his father to do away with. Gregory took hold of the chair and dragged it out of the room, nodding to the guard who opened the door for them, with Mycroft screaming and crying the entire way. Once in the passageway with the heavy doors shut behind them, Gregory pried the lad physically from the chair, sat down in it, threw him over his knee and paddled his bottom through his clothes. Since it was winter it made very little actual impact on the young man, but it did focus him enough for Gregory to drag him back to their quarters minus the chair.

Once there he tugged his pants down, tossed him over the bed, and gave him a proper paddling with the back of a hairbrush he’d bought in town with his spending money ages ago specifically for this purpose. Once the young man was sobbing incoherently he sat down on the bed and Mycroft pressed his face into Gregory’s thigh to bawl until his legs gave out and he slid to the floor in a heap.

Gregory followed him down, sitting behind him and petting his hair after tugging a blanket down to keep him from getting a chill. When the hysterics had died down to hiccups Gregory started the gruelling process of getting Mycroft back into a proper frame of mind.

“I love you, My. I always will, but you have to listen to me when I tell you to do something. I only give you orders that are in your best interest. Have I ever given you a pointless order?”

“No desert is a pointless order,” Mycroft whinged.

“You had desert, you were going for a _second_ desert; and while I will love you no matter how much of you there is, you’re starting to get plump. You want to set a good example for your people, don’t you?”

“They aren’t my people, they’re father’s, and someday they’ll be Sherrinford’s.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, Athair.”

“So from now on you will only have one desert per meal, not counting breakfast.”

“What about tea? How many biscuits can I have?” Mycroft asked, always the negotiator.

“Three seems reasonable to me.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“ _Three_ ,” Lestrade stated firmly, brooking no argument, “And you will join me on walks each evening. You will be handsome and women will line up to marry you.”

Mycroft rolled over and frowned up at him, “I don’t want to marry a woman.”

“Okay, _men_ will line up to marry you. It isn’t as though you’re the first born, anyway.”

“I want to marry _you_ ,” Mycroft replied.

“You can’t marry me, I’m your athair, remember? That would be incest.”

“Then I don’t want you to be my athair anymore,” Mycroft stated firmly.

Gregory’s mind reeled. His life for the last four years had revolved around raising Mycroft as if he were his own son. He kissed and bandaged his wounds, tucked him into bed, made sure his meals were healthy, and read everything he did so he could answer any questions the young man had.

“I… you… should I tell the king or will you?” Gregory replied, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“I don’t think he needs to know until I’m old enough to marry you,” Mycroft stated firmly.

“My,” Gregory stated, standing up and tugging the boy upright as well, “If I’m not your athair then you won’t listen to my orders, and your father will throw me in prison _or worse_ and find you a new athair.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m well behaved now. You’re just a figurehead.”

Gregory groaned, “You had a temper tantrum in the middle of a feast today. You call that well behaved?”

“Sherlock throws at least a dozen fits a day.”

“Sherlock isn’t the _concubine’s_ son,” Gregory replied, and then winced as Mycroft’s eyes misted up once more, “I’m sorry, My, but it’s _true_. Sherlock will always get more leeway than you will.”

“I know, I just… I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I’m not as dumb as you think,” Gregory sighed.

“I’m not as _young_ as you think. I’ll be ten in a few weeks!”

“Yes, and I’m proud of you,” Gregory replied automatically.

“Then you acknowledge me as a man?”

“Not as long as you’re throwing temper tantrums in the dinner hall.”

Mycroft’s response was to grab Gregory around the neck and press their lips together sloppily. Gregory pushed the lad away, spun him around, marched him to the corner, and placed him in his time-out chair.

“Stay there nine… no _ten_ minutes,” Gregory decided, and stomped off to calm himself down.

The fact of the matter was, he’d become instantly aroused when Mycroft had kissed him, but he was horrified with himself. He had little to no experience with sex in general, and it had been years since anyone besides himself had touched his member. The thought of another person- _any_ other person- touching him was utterly erotic. He tossed himself down on his bed after locking the door and stroked himself to the thought of a red head between his thighs. He tried very hard to pretend the head _didn’t_ belong to Mycroft.

XXX

Mycroft was sabotaging Gregory’s courting attempts. They both knew it, of course they did. After the knighting ceremony and Mycroft’s first kiss with Gregory (his first kiss with anyone) the gloves were off between them as Mycroft attempted to ‘man up’. Of course, there was no point to ‘acting his age’ if he lost Gregory in the mean time, so when the knight suddenly started flirting with everyone around him Mycroft made sure to inform those people that Gregory was taken.

What he couldn’t anticipate was the reaction from his father when Mycroft started showing an interest in matters of the kingdom and behaving himself even more than before. Now he was actively expressing opinions- and they were well informed and intelligent. His father was floored and before Mycroft knew it he was being told to attend meetings and brought into court during important discussions. It was only a matter of time before his father asked as to the change.

“Gregory, of course,” Mycroft stated, “I wish to marry him, but he sees me as a child. I’m going to show him I am a man so he will agree to marry me when I turn sixteen.”

King Siger considered his words a moment; “A knight is certainly an acceptable choice for a second son, more so for a concubine’s son. Marriage at sixteen, however, is impossible. I will require you to wait until your eldest brother has provided at least one heir. When the line is assured, you will have my blessing.”

Mycroft frowned, but nodded his ascent. There was little else he could do. At the very least, once he was sixteen Gregory could have no complaint about being intimate together. They already lived together for the most part; he would simply convince Gregory to sleep in his bed… in six more years.

Mycroft sighed and headed back to his quarters, settling into a deep depression. He ran into Sherlock along the way, the seven-year-old calamity calmly removing stones from the walls of the castle one at a time to see when it would collapse.

“Don’t get crushed,” Mycroft sighed as he passed.

“The magic protects me,” Sherlock stated.

“Well it doesn’t protect anyone else, so try not to kill anyone.”

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft continued on his way. Gregory was in his chambers, probably bathing after his patrol that day, which gave Mycroft an idea about how to cheer himself up. He walked back out into hall and found Sherlock, who was watching dust shift down from the ceiling above him with apparent fascination.

“Sher? Could you do me a favour?”

“Sure, My. What did you have in mind?”

“Do just what you were doing here, but on a different wall.”

“But I’m almost done with this one,” Sherlock replied with a narrowed gaze, “Why would I want to start over elsewhere when I’ve nearly completed…?”

“I want to see Gregory naked.”

Sherlock made a face, “Why?”

“Because I’m an adult and we like to see naked people,” Mycroft scoffed, “ _Obviously_.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes in disgust.

They walked back to the wall and Sherlock focused on the stone in front of him until it popped out. Soon enough his magic would require a focus, but as a child magic came naturally. Mycroft shoved him eagerly aside and peered in to see Gregory jumping out of the wooden tub by the fireplace and bolting for a blanket. He didn’t get a good look, but he did see quite a bit of flesh before he rounded on Sherlock and scolded him loudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked away snickering at his brother’s stupidity.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably as an odd, warm feeling suffused the front of his trousers. Blushing he fled to his bedroom and tugged his trousers and pants down. Gregory came through the door in a rage with his clothes partway on to stop in alarm at the sight of Mycroft staring at his half-erect penis.

XXX

“Athair! What’s _wrong_ with me?!”

“My, you’re just… it’s just… you’ve mentioned sex before, don’t you know what that is?”

My shook his head, a look of fear on his face, “It’s _uncomfortable_.”

“If you touch it, it won’t be,” Gregory replied without thinking.

Mycroft immediately wrapped his hand around it and stroked up.

“Oh!” Mycroft stumbled slightly, his pupils blown as he looked up at Gregory with a sharply indrawn breath.

“Ahh, I’ll just leave you alone…”

“No! I don’t know what to do next!”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Athair!” Mycroft trilled in panic.

Gregory paused, sighed in frustration, and turned back, “Lie down on the bed. I will _not_ under any circumstances touch you. Do as I tell you to.”

Mycroft scrambled onto the bed and under Gregory’s instruction he wrapped his hand around himself and began to stroke over and again.

“Tighten your grip a bit.”

“Uhhh,” Mycroft moaned, arching his back and thrusting his hips erratically in the air.

Gregory was breathless, but he kept his hands firmly on each thigh, refusing to touch himself with the younger man in the room. Sadly, Mycroft’s body didn’t appear to be ready. He tired before he reached completion, and slumped down in the bed with a sigh of frustration. Not surprising. Gregory hadn’t managed anything at ten either. He’d been twelve before he’d managed to ejaculate for the first time, and he’d been rather more developed than the other boys.

“I thought this was supposed to feel _good._ ”

“My, what exactly do you _know_ about sex?”

“What I’ve heard you and your friends joke about. I know it involves… er… this bit…”

“Your penis.”

“I knew it was called that!” Mycroft snapped irritably, tugging his trousers up and pouting.

“What else do you know?”

“That… that it’s supposed to feel good. That it’s hard to do, so you have to be a man.”

“Hard to do?”

“Yeah, you always talk about getting hard.”

“Ah, no. We’re referring to our… you know, the court physician is who explained it all to me, we should go to him,” Gregory decided, though he didn’t stand. He was still too ‘hard’.

“I don’t want to talk to some old geezer about sex. You tell me. You’ll be the one having it with me once I turn sixteen.”

“Okay… at least you’ve got the ‘sixteen’ part right. Okay, let’s… let’s start with what you just did…”

XXX

Gregory tucked the covers around Mycroft’s chin and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. He petted the soft auburn locks down, wondering how it could turn so dark in the candlelight. It looked brown at the moment, and his skin so utterly pale and pure.

“Don’t grow up yet, My,” Gregory whispered gently, pressing a kiss to his temple once more.

His sentiment didn’t stop him from locking his door, leaning against it, and stroking himself to completion as quickly as possible. He was picturing Mycroft as a man, grown and covered in patches of red hair rather than white skin.

“Oh, gods, My,” Greg whispered, sliding down the door as his seed cooled on his hand, “Six _years_!”


	4. Chapter 4

A few days later Greg was distracted from the disaster that was his bizarre relationship with Mycroft by Sherlock. The lad had been found in the woods nearby in what amounted to an animal graveyard- or perhaps an animal slaughter and horror yard would be more accurate. He had set up animals and killed them in gruesome fashion before letting them decay while recording the results. It would have been brushed aside and hidden had a group of peasant farmers not been the ones to find the young prince sitting in all his finery on top of a deer he’d caught in a trap while carefully stabbing it over and over again with a knife. They’d been horrified and had fled the area with shouts of terror.

By the time word made it to the court, everyone was convinced the prince was a practicing Necromancer who was preparing to destroy the kingdom by flooding it with zombies. People were panicking and guards had to be sent out to stop riots in the streets. King Siger was _furious_ to the point that Sherlock wisely hid himself somewhere in the castle and was missing for several days. Eventually someone in the kitchens caught him stealing food and he was dragged before his father. Greg was called in.

Greg stepped up to stand beside Sherlock with his knees shaking. What the King didn’t know was that he’d paddled Sherlock on more than one occasion and the lad had laughed in his face; he was completely unfazed. So if King Siger wanted Greg to perform the same miracle on _Sherlock_ that he’d done on _Mycroft_ he was going to be sorely disappointed.

“Three cattle, two men, one farm wall, a cart full of apples, a cart full of straw, and one horse,” King Siger recited.

“Sire?” Greg asked in confusion.

“The losses I caused when running off. Clod,” Sherlock growled with a roll of his eyes.

“I’d like an explanation, Sherlock,” King Siger growled.

“I wanted to see how they rotted,” Sherlock replied.

“Why, for gods’ sake?!”

“Because it’s fascinating and everything is _boring_ around here.”

“Do you have aspirations of being a doctor?”

“No.”

“A law enforcer?”

“No.”

“A murderer?” Mycroft’s voice piped up as he strode into the room with a frown marring his pretty face.

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look and paused just long enough to alarm them all before replying with another blandly stated negative.

“Then _why_ are you performing such odd… experiments?” King Siger asked in exasperation.

“I told you already. I’m _bored_.”

“You’re failing in your studies!” The man raged.

“They’re boring, too.”

“Sire?” Greg piped up, a thought crossing his mind, “If I may speak?”

“You may, and please have a suggestion,” The King replied in misery, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

“Sherlock is a genius, Sire,” The King snorted, but Greg continued, “Sherlock is a genius. He says he’s bored, but really he’s just not _stimulated_.”

“If you think your beatings will work on him, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve already tried.”

“Ahhh, not exactly what I had in mind,” Greg replied, glancing sideways at the young man, “I was thinking more of _advanced_ tutoring- something he won’t find boring- and encouraging his experiments in a controlled setting.”

“I’m not thrilled with the idea of corpses rotting in the castle,” The King replied, “Truthfully there are enough _stiffs_ around here.”

The King was, of course, speaking of his advisors. It was a long-standing joke that they could be replaced with statues.

“Well, the thing is, I heard you say _experiment_ earlier, and I was thinking that Sherlock is approaching his little… games… much the way an alchemist would. What if he were to take lessons in alchemy?”

The King’s head rose from his hand and he glanced at his youngest son. Sherlock was trying not to look interested. He was failing, especially when he started dancing about a bit in place as if he had to pee. Though clearly bordering on insane, he was still a seven-year-old boy.

“What would this do for him?” The King asked.

“Well… it would focus him. Keep him busy and engaged. Keep him from _literally_ destroying the castle. Ahhh, you might want to throw in magic training, too. Not sure how that works, but it has to be better than him wandering around destroying parts of the castle and then sending masons in to fix them.”

“Hmmm, I was hoping _you_ could handle this.”

“I don’t think Sherlock will respond well to my methods. Like you mentioned, he’s unaffected.”

“That’s because I’m not emotional like _Mycroft_ is,” Sherlock sneered.

“I’m _not_ emotional. I have needs, is all, and Athair provides me with them.”

Sherlock turned those eerily intelligent eyes on Mycroft and stared at him coldly for a moment, “What sort of needs?”

“None of your business!” Mycroft snapped, flushing bright red.

“Quite right. You’ll find out when you’re old enough,” Siger replied, “Gregory, I’m going to take you up on your advice. You’ve never steered me wrong where Mycroft has been concerned. I will speak to his tutors immediately and have them find proper teachers for Sherlock so he can take more advanced lessons.”

“What about me, father?” Mycroft asked, “I’m ready for advanced classes as well.”

“Oh?” The King asked, but he was asking _Gregory_ again.

“He’s more than ready, Sire,” Gregory agreed.

“Then make a list of what lessons he should attend and provide them to the tutor. In the future you need not speak to me first. Just make sure Mycroft is kept busy and educated. He’ll make an excellent advisor for my eldest son some day if he continues on the path you’ve laid out for him. Of course, your reward will be reaped by then as well. In fact… Gregory, it is long overdue that you receive a reward for your long service and patience where my son is concerned. I want you to come to me tomorrow at this same time with a list of three possible rewards. I will choose one which I feel is fitting.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Greg replied, bowing low.

Mycroft followed him after they were dismissed and Sherlock wandered off in the opposite direction.

“He’s up to no good,” Greg sighed.

“He _is_ no good. There’s something off about him.”

“There’s nothing _on_ about him. He’s terrifying.”

“True, but he’s also quite talented. Father would be a fool not to utilize that talent.”

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

“Like Father?”

“Yeah.”

“Gods, thank you for warning me,” Mycroft replied, a look of disgust on his face.

Greg smiled and they headed back into their rooms to look over which studies Mycroft wanted to advance in. The answer was ‘all of them’, but especially accounting, record keeping, history, geography, and politics. They sat on the thick rug in front of the fireplace and worked out their goals.

“Do you _want_ to be an advisor to your brother?” Greg asked.

“Advisor?” Mycroft snorted, “I intend to run the country… albeit from the sidelines. I won’t wear the crown, but it won’t wear me either. Sherrinford is a moron. He’ll need a firm hand to guide him, and with you by my side I will be both powerful and _safe_. I will run the country without being obligated to be a figurehead that everyone stares and pokes at.”

Mycroft crawled into Greg’s lap, pushing aside the books and papers they’d been looking over in favour of a cuddle. Greg smiled and held him close, back to front, his chin resting on the younger boy’s shoulder as they gazed into the fire together.

“Play with me?” Mycroft requested.

“Really?” Greg asked in surprise.

“N-no,” Mycroft stammered, “I was just joking. I’m too old for that stuff.”

“No you aren’t,” Greg sat back and turned Mycroft’s chin so he could look into his eyes, “I like playing with you, My. You’ll never be too old.”

“You won’t think less of me?” Mycroft asked, squirming a bit.

“No. Come on. Get your dolls.”

Mycroft smiled and rolled off Greg’s lap, heading for his toy chest. He pulled out a series of dolls, a bag full of clothes for them, and a then pulled their furniture out piece by piece. The dolls were all about eight inches tall and very detailed. Greg had whittled them for Mycroft in his spare time, getting help from a mate to make the arms and legs bendable, and they’d quickly become his favourite toys for years to come. Sometimes he pretended they were his family, but more often they were imaginary friends that Mycroft had never had. The ridiculous fear that he must not have a soul had persisted, so the doll with red hair often went on a quest to obtain a soul. That was Mycroft’s goal today, apparently as he set them up along with the plush dragon.

“The King has decreed that all must have souls to remain in the kingdom,” Mycroft informed Greg solemnly, “I’ll have to defeat the dragon in order to earn one.”

Greg picked up the doll that was his likeness, “I beg to assist you, my prince! Do not leave me behind on your dangerous journey!”

They played for several hours, getting more and more rambunctious until they were running around the room and shouting happily, jumping on the bed in their eagerness. Mycroft had snatched up his toy sword and was waving it at the fireplace with his wooden shield raised.

“Brace yourself for his fiery breath, Sir Knight!”

“Aye, Sire!”

The door flew open and Mycroft looked towards it in horror. His father stood there, a look of disgust on his face.

“And here I thought you finally proving yourself to me,” The king declared with a sneer as he strode into their sanctuary.

“Father… I…”

“It was my idea,” Greg offered immediately, “It helps him get his energy out so he’ll behave in public and…”

The King backhanded Greg without a glance, his strike hard enough to send Gregory toppling to the floor.

“Athair!” Mycroft cried out, jumping down and running to his side to clutch his head against his chest, “Don’t hurt him!”

“Pathetic child,” King Siger growled, then grabbed the nearest doll and threw it into the fireplace.

“NO!” Mycroft shouted angrily, “Those are mine! Athair made them!!”

“You think I don’t know what you call him? _I_ am your father and you will obey me. It is long past time for you to put toys aside,” The King growled, grabbing two more and throwing them in as well.

Greg restrained Mycroft when he went to stop him, holding him tightly to his chest and brushing his tears aside as dolls went in one by one, followed by his toy sword, toy shield, the clothes, the furniture, the stuffed dragon, and finally the raggedy stuffed cat he’d kept since infancy and still slept with. Mycroft turned his head away from the smouldering pile of his childhood and buried his face in Greg’s shoulder, sobbing brokenly.

“You’ve done an admirable job keeping my son in line for all these years, Gregory,” The King declared, “You have a new task. Make a _man_ out of him or I will find a more suitable person for the job.”

“Yes, Sire. It will be done,” Greg whispered as the man brushed past him and towards the door.

“I trust it will. It’s one thing to keep a redheaded child alive: don’t make me regret my decision to allow him to reach adulthood. I assure you I _will_ correct that mistake if necessary.”

Greg crushed Mycroft to himself until the lad could barely breathe.

“That won’t be necessary Sire,” Greg insisted, “I’ll have him in perfect shape in three days.”

“I trust you will.”

The door slammed shut behind the arrogant king and Greg gently stroked Mycroft’s hair until the lad stilled in his arms. Then he carefully helped him to his feet and into bed where he crawled in with him to hold him close.

“Let’s run away,” Greg whispered, “We’ll sneak out. I have a friend who will help, I’m sure he can be trusted.”

“No,” Mycroft whispered, “That man can’t live forever; I _will not_ be destroyed by him. I’ll have his kingdom, his power, and his respect. I don’t need his respect, but I’ll earn it anyway. He’ll never even suspect my plans, and neither will my dimwitted brother. You and I will be happy, Athair.”

“Yes, my Prince, my love.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

_So as of 2/3/15 I’ve gone back over the previous four chapters and fixed some pretty obnoxious errors. Their ages as of the end of Ch 4 are Sherlock: 7, Mycroft: 10, Gregory: 16. Starting in this chapter they are 10, 13, and 19 respectively. Adulthood is 16 for the purposes of this fic and gender and sexuality aren’t a big thing in their world. The date of the fic isn’t relevant to our universe and magic is real._

 

Three years had passed and Mycroft had stuck by his plan of taking the kingdom from his dim-witted brother. Gone were the toys. Now their games involved strategy, mostly revolving around chess boards and various other intelligent adult games. Sherlock would join them and plot with them quite alarmingly. Lestrade hadn’t been sure if he could be trusted, but apparently he was quite the little traitor to the thrown deep down inside. Then one day he caused a rather big problem in the castle, the first in the years since he’d been given proper training.

Sherlock was missing again. Greg had been sent to search the castle with Mycroft as his guide in the hopes of finding the little shit. They had finally located him in the cellar with a dead and rotting cat, he was surrounded by stolen paper and other writing utensils that he was using to document his findings. They were most elaborate, but it wasn’t until Mycroft drew his attention away from shouting at and shaking the child that he was shown just how convoluted. He ended up staring in shock at the drawings, mathematics, and overall research. Sherlock had figured out how the cat had died, at what time, what it had eaten before hand, and how its death could have _been prevented_.

“You _are_ trying to become a doctor!” Greg exclaimed.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “I’m trying to become something in between a doctor and a peacekeeper.”

“That’s… brilliant,” Gregory breathed, “My, did you know he was this smart?”

“This is smart?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow, “They’re just scribbles on paper.”

“I couldn’t have done this given twice the time!” Gregory argued, “And I’m older and educated in this sort of thing! Who’s been giving you lessons, Sherlock?”

“Various people,” Sherlock shrugged, “I don’t bother to learn their names. I drive them off eventually. When they become bored.”

“He’s learned this on his own,” Mycroft sighed, “Mostly by talking to me. When you’re away with your knight friends I often spend time in the library with Sherlock. We’ve nothing better to do.”

“I’m surrounded by mad geniuses,” Gregory muttered.

“What baffles me,” Mycroft replied, “Is that everyone around me is so very _stupid_. I’m surrounded by goldfish!”

“I’d be insulted if you weren’t so fucking brilliant,” Gregory muttered, “My, you do realize this is pretty damn smart?”

“Really?” Mycroft snorted.

“Have you ever even _met_ other kids?” Greg wondered.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “They’re outside the castle or are working, and we are under orders not to bother them. Of course, we’ve disobeyed those orders, but the pages and such just duck their heads and mutter things. It’s very dull so we usually don’t bother.”

“Time for a horse ride. Come along, Sherlock. You can leave your experiment for a few hours,” Gregory ordered.

Gregory took the boys back to their rooms and dressed each of them in their riding gear, keeping his eyes carefully away from the parts of Mycroft that he knew the younger lad wanted him to see. Honestly, he wasn’t very tempted. He wanted Mycroft the _man_ , not Mycroft the child; even if he did like being the lad’s ‘daddy’. Once done he took them down to the stable, saddled a pony and a horse, hefted Mycroft up onto the two person saddle on the horse, and heaved Sherlock onto the pony’s saddle. The lad sat properly, so he’d evidently had riding lessons. Gregory tied him to the saddle anyway and then tied the pony to his horse. Sherlock gave him an amused look that implied he could free himself in an instant. Gregory shuddered and mounted the horse behind Mycroft.

Gregory tried not to drown in the beauty of holding Mycroft. It was so precious to have his soft boy near him, and he took a moment or two to nuzzle beneath his ear and smell his pretty, soft hair. Mycroft hated his red hair, but Gregory adored it and was mourning the ever darkening colour. He thought Mycroft looked like an angel with a halo around his head. He wanted to drown in him and the moment he got him alone in their chambers he’d spend hours brushing his hair, singing to him, and playing games with him… or he had until Siger had destroyed their toys. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft would accept him making new ones. He was growing more and more interested in sex and Gregory was having to push him away more firmly, all while soothing his fragile ego.

“Do you two want to be alone?” Sherlock asked, giving them a sly look.

“You’re ten,” Greg spat, “What do you know of such things?”

“I know you want to touch him but restrain yourself.”

“I’m waiting for him to come of age,” Gregory replied, swallowing hard. Every one of his mates had bedded someone already, even if it wasn’t fully penetrative sex. He was well past adulthood, but he would likely be a virgin until he was two and twenty!

“What will you do with me when I come of age?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing,” Gregory replied, giving him a startled look, “I’m not… involved with you like that.”

“When will I have someone to be involved with?” Sherlock asked, “I want a person to play with.”

Greg didn’t answer and Mycroft remained silent. They rode for a while until they reached a field where the smaller children where playing. Come autumn they’d be pulled into the fields, but for now they only spent a portion of their time there and the rest by their mother’s skirts. The womenfolk were doing the wash at the moment, so the children were playing with sticks and chasing each other about. Gregory dismounted and tugged a resisting Sherlock towards the group while Mycroft strode forward purposefully.

“Good evening,” Mycroft stated, extending his hand to the nearest boy his age, “My name is Prince Mycroft Holmes and this is my brother Prince Sherlock Pendragon. Pleasure to meet you. Might we enquire as to the rules of your game?”

The boy stared at Mycroft’s hand, then he glanced at Sherlock, and then he gave Gregory an annoyed glance. Greg opened his mouth to try and smooth things over but it was too late. The young teen stepped forward and shoved Mycroft into the mud with enough force to knock his head into the ground. The children around burst into peels of laughter while Sherlock snickered. A moment later another boy made to push Sherlock into the mud, but the young man stepped easily aside and his assailant toppled to the ground. He couldn’t have been more than six, and that was all Gregory could think of as he dragged Sherlock off of him and turned the child over to scoop mud out of his mouth. The mother was running over, screaming in horror. Greg barely managed to get the child breathing again before she tugged him out of Gregory’s arms and began beating the three of them with a the rug duster. Greg grabbed both of them by their hands and dragged them back to their steeds as fast as possible. He just hoped the little children hadn’t remembered their names or at least had thought them imposters.

“The little savages!” Mycroft raged, stripping off his riding cloak and throwing it to the stable floor, “Why the _hell_ are we letting them breed!”

“Watch your mouth!” Gregory barked, “And don’t talk about people that way!”

“Why not?” Mycroft snarled.

“I for one feel I’ve learned a valuable lesson,” Sherlock announced, brushing the drying mud off of his knees.

“Yes, how to kill a defenceless child!” Gregory snarled at him, “You need to be tied up, you mad bastard!”

“I’m not a bastard,” Sherlock replied, “My father is the _king_. Something you’d do well to remember.”

“Don’t threaten him!” Mycroft snapped, “I could kill you in your sleep!”

“ENOUGH!” Gregory shouted, “Nobody is killing anyone!”

They both peered up at him, Sherlock defiantly and Mycroft with just enough shame to convince him it wasn’t entirely an act.

“Let’s wash you both up,” Greg sighed, “And while I do I’ll explain things to you both.”

They trudged upstairs and Gregory ordered a bath for them, stripping them down and dropping them into the warm water after brushing a majority of the mud out of Mycroft’s hair. He scrubbed them down while they pouted in the water and Gregory started in on his lecture.

“Look, you’re both unbelievably intelligent. That’s an amazing thing. What you need to understand is that it makes you special, but not any more important than another person.”

“We’re _princes_ ,” Sherlock pointed out, “Mycroft will some day have a dukedom at the very least. I’ll be a mage.”

“Even so,” Gregory sighed, “Every single person in this world is capable of three things; being supremely useless, improving life around them, saving a life, making the lives of those around them worse, and ending a life. The last two are the worse things you can do. You can’t bring a life back. You can’t give someone back his or her hope and happiness once you’ve taken it away. You can destroy far easier than you can uplift, but doing so means you’ve lost a part of yourself. It means you’ve lost your humanity. And that goes for peasants _and_ princes.”

The boys were silent and Greg helped first little Sherlock out and then Mycroft, drying each off in front of the fireplace and dressing them in Mycroft’s night clothes since they were handy. Sherlock looked so small and innocent in Mycroft’s oversized clothes. He was so slight for his age, and his halo of dark curls made him look like a doll rather than a bratty boy.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade gave the lad’s shoulder a squeeze, “Promise me you won’t hurt someone like that again.”

Sherlock studied Lestrade for a long moment and then shook his head, “No.”

XXX

“Was there _anything_ I could have said?” Greg asked as he tucked Mycroft into bed.

“Not really,” Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock is lost inside his own head. He doesn’t see people for who they are, only for how useful they can be to him. To him they are all tools to be used and worn down or cast aside.”

“You don’t see people like that,” Gregory replied, “If I’d given him the kind of attention I gave you do you think he’d have turned out better?”

Mycroft cocked his head to the side, “Athair I _do_ see people that way. I’m merely aware that it’s a perception rather than a fact.”

“But… _why_?” Gregory asked in misery.

“Because that’s how we were raised,” Mycroft replied, “It’s how Siger thinks.”

“You’re better than him!” Gregory snapped.

“I know,” Mycroft replied, “Which is why I acknowledge that my perception is a fault. That being said people are still chess pieces to me. I simply strive not to sacrifice them the way he would. It is my hope that someday Sherlock will learn to think the same way.”

Gregory had no response for that, he simply rubbed his hands over his face in misery.

“Athair,” Mycroft soothed softly, “You’ve done an admirable job raising me.”

“I’ve _tried_ ,” Lestrade groaned, “It’s awful sometimes. I feel like there was no right way to do this.”

“There wasn’t,” Mycroft coaxed his hands down and then leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Gregory groaned, desire throbbing through him at the same time disgust reared it’s ugly head. Mycroft was still a child. He pulled away and tugged the blankets up to his chin as he pushed him gently down into the mattress. He’d had to paddle him like a child recently, though it was for something silly. He’d been manipulating a kitchen wench into getting him sweets by convincing her he’d steal her soul if she didn’t give him offerings. She’d been terrified. Lestrade had given her a candle, telling her it was made of the fat of cats and therefore powerful and magic. He told her if she burned it for a moment before bed each night Mycroft wouldn’t be able to take her soul. Then he’d punished the little brat and sent him to bed without supper. He’d cried but been his good little boy in the end.

“I want you to grow up tomorrow,” Greg sighed, “At the same time I want you to go back to being a little boy.”

“I’m stuck in between both,” Mycroft replied, “And yet my mind is matured. Can you not consider that aspect?”

“You may be _intellectually_ matured,” Gregory replied, “But you aren’t _emotionally_ matured. To take you to bed with me now would be unjust and cruel. In three years you’ll be legally an adult. By then you may see things differently. I may be a nuisance to you.”

“Never, Athair. You are my heart.”

“I hope I still am when you are old enough to consent,” Gregory replied, “It would be torture to wait this long and then lose you to another.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg’s fears and wished him goodnight. Gregory locked himself into his room to picture the aged figure of Mycroft he’d been fantasizing about for years now. He often pictured him dressed in royal robes, a powerful ruler and yet still his little boy deep down inside. Gregory tossed off slowly, letting his mind savour the man he loved. He wondered if they would grow up to love each other or if Mycroft would leave him before his fantasies could be lived out.

He got the answer to his question the next day.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning for this chapter only: Cheating. 

 

Mycroft got the idea from Sherlock. He found the little louse ordering a servant boy about. Apparently he’d snatched the lad up from the kitchens and ordered him to _love_ him. He was then forcing the lad to clean his room and eat the parts of his food he disliked. The lad didn’t seem overly put out, but Mycroft sent him on his way anyway.

“You can’t order him to love you,” Mycroft scoffed.

“Why not? You did. And it was working until you interfered you fat clod.”

“I’m not fat, I’m _plump_ ,” Mycroft snapped, “And Gregory loves me all on his own.”

“Lestrade _tolerates_ you, because father will hang him if he doesn’t. He’s just waiting for the day when you get interested in someone else and move on. Or put out for him finally.”

Mycroft flushed, “What does a _child_ know of such things?”

“Enough,” Sherlock replied.

“That boy didn’t love you either.”

“I’m fine with pretence,” Sherlock shrugged, “Besides, I’m doing an experiment. I’m going to see what it takes to make someone _really_ fall in love with you.”

“It was cuter when you couldn’t properly pronounce the word ‘experiment’. Now you’re just terrifying,” Mycroft sighed as if much put upon, “Don’t stop the serfs from performing their duties, Sherlock. Father will beat you.”

Sherlock shrugged as Mycroft turned and left the room, but the younger boy had no idea how confused he’d made the concubine’s son. Mycroft left with his belly twisted in knots and the beginnings of a very _bad_ idea in his head.

XXX

Gregory was finished his morning training with the other knights, having bested Donovan and Anderson a few times and had his arse handed to him by Gawain as usual. He was sore, sweaty, and in the mood for a wipe-down. Since bathing regularly was a pain in a castle that only had a few water pumps in it he kept a bowl of water by his fireside with a flannel and some herbs in it that allowed him to wash up a bit after practice. He headed into Mycroft’s chambers first, intending on telling his sweetheart that he was back and would be free to spend time with him soon. Except Mycroft wasn’t in his chambers with Sherlock and their tutor today. Sometimes they finished lessons early, but that just meant that Mycroft would read a bit while waiting for him.

_Perhaps he ran out of books again. I’ll check the library after I wash up._

Gregory headed into his own darkened chambers, only the low-burning fire casting light into the chambers. He found his way there by memory but was distracted on his way by a soft panting sound, then a whispered hushing sound.

 _Mycroft and Sherlock playing pranks_ , Gregory thought as he smothered a smile. He’d pretend to be shocked.

Gregory stirred up the fire and then lit a candle with a long, burning stick. When he’d had a couple of them lit over the fireplace and table his patience with the boys had fled. They usually jumped out to scare him by now, but it was taking a while. He turned to look for them, deciding that they must want to be found, and stared in shock at the bed. Mycroft was there, flushed and wide eyed as he sat beside another young man. They were both stark naked, though the other young man had pulled his blankets up to cover his genitals. Mycroft was erect and his belly was shiny with the other young man’s leavings. It was this man who was panting, his eyes wide and his body shaking with a mixture of fear and excitement.

Gregory saw red. For a moment his entire body went cold, rage coursed through him, and the world around him turned bright with white tinging the sides of his vision. He didn’t remember what he did next, only the sounds of screaming would colour his memory for years to come. Mycroft stopped him from killing the young man, but only just. He’d beaten him within an inch of his life by the time Mycroft’s screams for the guards brought someone strong enough to pry Gregory off. Mycroft was wrapped in one of Gregory’s blankets, eyes wide and shaking in fear as two guards restrained Gregory and a third ran to fetch the castle’s healer. No one looked at Mycroft or Gregory, the two restraining Greg simply dragged him into Mycroft’s chambers where Mycroft followed along silently.

“My lord, perhaps you should stay away from sir Lestrade…” One of the guard’s suggested cautiously. His name was Fredericks if Gregory’s shaken memory served.

“I…” Mycroft looked uncertain and quite afraid, “Gregory?”

“Go. Bathe,” Gregory growled, but he was clenching his teeth so tightly that there was no way to understand him.

“Say again Athair?” Mycroft asked cautiously.

“Don’t call me that!” Gregory shouted, suddenly attempting to lurch free of his captors. They managed to restrain him, but just barely. He’d had a hand out to grab Mycroft’s hair and the young lad drew back in fear.

“What do I call you if not Athair?”

“What do I care?!” Gregory spat angrily, “You’re clearly done with me, you faithless…!”

A guard struck him on the back of the head before he could say something that would get him beheaded, but the damage had been done as far as Mycroft was concerned. Tears were whelling up in his eyes, and he was breathing rather fast.

“You were making me wait,” Mycroft whimpered, “I just wanted to be touched. I didn’t think you’d care.”

Gregory scowled at him, for a moment and then looked away. He would disgrace himself by weeping if he kept looking at those shining eyes. He’d known this was a possibility; that Mycroft would tire of him and want someone his own age at some point. He had just assumed that he’d at _least_ have had a chance to touch him _once_ before that happened. The idea that someone else had taken his soft Mycroft’s body _first_ was absolutely stomach turning.

He shouldn’t have thought of his stomach at that moment, because it suddenly decided to crawl up his throat. One of the guard’s noticed and released him to grab a potted plant which Lestrade was spectacularly ill in.

“We should get him down to the dungeon, right?” The other guard asked.

“No idea,” Fredericks replied, “He outranks us. Knights don’t normally do these sorts of things. I think the king or his captain have to decide.”

“He’ll not be punished for this!” Mycroft cried out, his voice still high as a child’s.

_How did this happen? He still squeaks like a girl, but he’s betrayed me like a man. Why?_

“Why?” Gregory pushed out, “Why would you do this? Wasn’t I faithful? Loyal? Always caring for you?”

Mycroft struggled to reply, but Gregory didn’t look at his face. He was studying the princes feet where they shuffled anxiously on the fur throw on the floor of his bedchambers.

“All except one need, Athair.”

“I’m through being your athair,” Gregory growled.

“N-no,” Mycroft’s voice cracked, “Please, don’t say such things!”

“You _betrayed_ me!” Gregory spat out.

“I didn’t mean to!” Mycroft pleaded, reaching out to pull his face up so their eyes could meet. Gregory pulled away from him and Mycroft stepped back again, “I was just testing you.”

“I’m not an _experiment!_ ” Gregory snarled.

“In a way,” A voice interrupted them, “You are. Though perhaps a failed one.”

Gregory raised his eyes enough to see that it was his king in the chambers and then lowered it obediently.

“Father,” Mycroft stated, his voice shaking.

“You’ve made a horrific miscalculation, Mycroft,” Siger stated coldly, “Should you intend to be unfaithful to your betrothed you should do so with _discretion_. Had you spoken to me first I could have provided you with chambers away from his usual territory.”

“I never meant…” Mycroft started, and then quickly corrected himself, “I understand, father.”

“So you must after such a drastic display,” Siger replied, “I’m surprised at you, Gregory. Tell me, did you think him assaulted or were you jealous?”

“Jealous, sire,” Gregory responded honestly, though now his eyes met Mycroft’s devastated ones.

“I see,” Siger replied, “A love of your liege is important, of course, but I imagine it is quite sullied by now. I will give you leave to seek out a new lord if you like. My cousin has a small fiefdom in the south that could use fresh, young leadership.”

Siger let it hang and Gregory’s mind twisted its way around in circles. He pictured his life without Mycroft. Without the daily words whispered between them. Without the games they played. Without holding him in his arms before bed each night. Without that innocent kiss goodnight. He might as well picture a future in a prison cell for all the hope he felt from such a life.

“No thank you, sire,” Gregory all but went limp in grip of his two captors, causing them to gently lower him to the ground where he knelt staring at his hands as his tears dropped down onto them, “I wish to remain your knight.”

“And my foolish son?” Siger asked.

“I wish to remain his guard,” Gregory replied, forcing his voice to be steady even though he couldn’t raise it above a whisper.

“Very well,” Siger replied, “The whelp you beat is alive but concussed. If he survives the night you will go without punishment. If he dies I will have you publicly flogged.”

Then Siger left without another word and the guards slowly made their uncertain exit, one of them whispering to Mycroft before he left. His words were too low for Gregory to hear, but they were undoubtedly an acertaion of whether or not they should remove Gregory. The broken man continued to sit slouched on Mycroft’s floor. When the lad approached him and tried to touch his face he knocked his hands away and surged to his feet.

“Athair…” Mycroft whispered through tears.

“Lestrade,” Gregory replied, “My _name_ is Lestrade.”

“I’ll call you what I wish!” Mycroft shrieked at him angrily.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Gregory replied, and stomped into his room.

He slammed the door behind himself and threw the latch. He locked the outside door as well. Little good they would do, as he’d left them locked on many occasions to find one of the younger two princes had easily broken in. He turned and surveyed his rooms, but they no longer felt like his. His bed had been violated. Angry, Gregory turned to it and ripped off the blankets, snarling angrily as he pulled out a knife and shredded them into small scraps. He spent the better part of three hours slowly burning them in his fireplace after goading it up to a roar. It made an atrocious amount of smoke and his rooms wreaked of it, but he didn’t care. When he emerged from his rooms again he was covered in soot and his face was an angry growl. He was off duty and Mycroft was in his chambers weeping judging by the soft wails coming from within. He decided he needed a proper bath, the sort he’d had as a child before coming to the castle. He went down to the stables, saddled a horse, and rode it out the gates as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. The horse was frothing by the time he reached the creek he’d known as a child a good many miles away from the castle. It was well past dark, but Gregory wasn’t overly concerned. He knew these woods like the back of his hand despite the many years that had passed. He tied the horse, giving it enough lead to be comfortable after the hard ride, and strode fully clothed into the water. His armour was back at the armoury of course, or he’d have sunk and never emerged, but he rather regretted that for just a moment. Then the cool water washed away the grime from practice, the salt from his tears, the soot from his face and hair, and the misery of the day. He stood in the water and let it’s chill seep into his bones until he was shaking so hard that it was impossible to tell if it was from the cold or his broken sobs. By the time he emerged and carefully stripped off his sodden clothes he was calm again. He hung his clothing from branches and stretched out on a patch of moss to stare up at the stars through a break in the trees.

“I’ve had a blessed life,” Gregory told them, “I’ve had it far too easy. I was practically handed my knighthood because of Mycroft. I’ve let him run my life, made a parent far too young. I’d barely started making seed when he’d made me adopt him! Yet I loved every second. Every innocent kiss. Every loving glance. He worshiped me and I worshiped him. Perhaps this is for the best. I had him on a pedestal. Now he’s well off it. And aren’t I being just a bit unfair? I did deny him even _my_ touch. I could have denied myself and let him enjoy comfort from me, but I said many times that I was too old for him. Well, he found someone his own age. Good. He’s had what I haven’t and never will. I’m done with the flesh. Here I lay naked as the day I was born, washed clean of the madness of my life, and I make a new vow- not before my king but before my gods- that from this day on the pleasures of the flesh will never be mine. Mycroft will find a lover his own age and I… I will be his Athair until the day I die a withered, bitter old man.”

Lestrade finally slept there and when he woke up it was nearly noon. If anyone had come by they’d been too alarmed by the sight to steal his things. He dressed in mostly dry clothing, watered his miserable steed, gave it a few fallen apples to sooth it’s bruised ego, and then led it slowly back to the castle. He had been gone long enough to earn him a citation- it was close to morning of the next day- but he wasn’t about to apologize to anyone. The rumours would explain what had happened to his captain.

As Gregory re-entered the castle grounds he was surprised by the reactions around him by the guards, but he kept his head firmly up and his expression bland. He took his horse in and left the tired beast in the capable hands of a squire before heading up to his chambers. Along the way he received more shocked stares, many people drawing away from him in alarm. Had the boy he’d beaten died? Perhaps they counted him a murderer? Or the rumour’s had gotten far out of hand and he was being made into some sort of monster?

Gregory entered his rooms and found them tidied up with new blankets on his bed. He walked over to the still water beside the fireplace, refreshed by the maid who had tirelessly scrubbed his chambers of the mess he’d made. He was staring down at it and wondering if his life would ever feel normal again when a soft gasp behind him drew his attention.

“Your hair…” Mycroft spoke softly, “What did you do to it?”

“Washed it,” Gregory grunted.

Mycroft was beautiful as always, dressed to perfection and standing tall despite the worry in his eyes. He crossed from the door and stepped up to Gregory where he sat on the stool before his fireplace. He stroked his hair gently and shook his head in confusion.

“Your burning or washing must have exposed you to something. Your hair has changed.”

Gregory shrugged uncaring. So what if he’d become ugly? Mycroft was with someone else now. Assuming the brat was alive.

Mycroft pointed to the water bowl and Gregory leaned down to stare into it at his reflection. Mycroft was right, his hair _had_ changed. It was smattered with grey now as if he’d become an old man overnight. Gregory laughed as he stood up.

“Good,” He replied bitterly, “Now I look like a father as well as live like one.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft tried softly, “About yesterday…”

“You’re entitled to have lovers, My,” Gregory replied, “I don’t own you.”

“You… you can have some too,” Mycroft replied, his voice choked. He clearly didn’t want that.

“I’m not interested in anyone,” Gregory replied. _Anyone else,_ he thought miserably.

“No one?” Mycroft asked worriedly.

“I’ve spent the night bathing and praying,” Gregory replied, “I’ve decided that if I’m to be your father than I’ll be like the priestly sort. I’ve taken a vow of chastity.”

“But… you were to be mine,” Mycroft said softly.

“You have someone else… assuming he’s alive.”

“He is,” Mycroft replied, “But I don’t even recall his name. He means nothing to me.”

“He meant enough for you to fuck him,” Gregory replied, his anger drained out enough that it came out bland. He was sorting through his drawers for a clean pair of clothes. The ones on his body were scratchy from the creek water and the poor drying they’d had.

“It was just an awkward fumble,” Mycroft replied, “Neither of us really knew what we were doing, for all you’ve explained it to me. I didn’t penetrate him and he didn’t penetrate me. We just rubbed against each other until he made a mess all over me.”

“You liked it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were aroused.”

“From your scent on the bed,” Mycroft replied, “I never even made seed.”

“Then you’ll still be virginal for your next encounter.”

“I’m saving myself for you,” Mycroft replied, “I’m done experimenting with others.”

“You can do as you please,” Gregory replied, “But I’ll not be yours anymore. I’m your Athair. Your father. Fathers don’t sleep with their children.”

“Many men adopt someone and raise them to be their perfect spouse,” Mycroft replied.

“You aren’t what I’d call a perfect spouse, My,” Gregory laughed, “After what your father said I can’t even be sure of your faithfulness. He’ll just help you cheat on me.”

“If I give you my word…”

“I’m not about to trust your word. We were _betrothed_ Mycroft, and I caught you in _my bed_ with someone else!”

“We still are,” Mycroft insisted, “We’re still betrothed. I told my father I still want you.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Gregory replied miserably, “I hardly have a choice in the matter.”

“I want you in my bed someday,” Mycroft replied, “I imagine you have to be a part of that.”

“Not really,” Gregory laughed, stripping down and beginning to change. Mycroft gasped behind him and grew very still. Gregory didn’t care. He was hardly as innocent as he had been so seeing Gregory’s hairy arse wouldn’t do him any harm, “I wouldn’t be the first spouse to lay there and think of the commonwealth.”

“I’d rather you thought of _me,”_ Mycroft replied, his voice breathy.

“I probably will,” Gregory sighed, pulling on some clean undergarments, “You’re always on my mind. I can’t stop loving you even when you cut me to the quick.”

“You really love me?” Mycroft asked, his voice pleading.

Gregory turned to face the teen and found him flushed with arousal and shame, his eyes wide with longing as he stared up at him.

“I’ll always love you,” Gregory replied, “And isn’t that just a little bit sad?”

Then he pushed passed him as he tried to reach out and pull him close, “Gregory!”

“Yes, sire?” Gregory stopped and turned, his hands dropping to his side. He’d been preparing to go lie down in bed and mope away the rest of the early morning.

“I want you,” Mycroft pleaded, “I’ve been with someone else now. Doesn’t that mean I’m ready?”

“No,” Gregory replied, “It doesn’t. It means you’re ready to be with someone _your own age_. Like you wanted the other day. Go ahead and find one. I won’t beat him this time around. Just do me a favour and bed him in your _own_ bed. I don’t fancy having to burn another set of sheets.”

“Greg! I want _you!”_

“Well you have to either wait for me or rape me, because I’m not bedding you until you’re legally an adult and not just trying to _act_ like one,” Gregory replied, and then stood there and waited for his response.

Mycroft burst into tears and fled to his room, slamming the door between their chambers. Gregory crawled into bed to do a bit more weeping of his own.


End file.
